Sign Of The Times: A Post Apocalyptic Harry Styles Fanfiction
by mountainsRcalling
Summary: In the post-apocalyptic world of Revolution, armed with a gun and Jeep, One Direction band member, Harry Styles, sets out to bring down the Monroe Republic with Rick Grimes at his side.


Was he alone?

Harry closed his eyes, the cool dirt pooling in the corners of his eyes. How had he gotten to this point? He lay just below the surface, leaves and dirt piled over his body to conceal it, and waited. The sun was rising just above the horizon and he could smell the night scent of the pines. The earth was silent, up in the mountains where few people dared drive their cars for fear of being stranded off-road. He'd lain beneath the soil, listening to the sound of car doors and unintelligible voices for the last seven hours. Now there had been silence for a good three, so he shook his head gently to clear the earth from his face, and rose from his hiding place.

The woods were still. He breathed in, a sharp, clear stab of air, and unclenched his fist. Inside his palm was a Glock 19, a blockish, reliable weapon. He ran his hand over his face and pushed the gun into his belt against the small of his back. The woods were a hundred-yard stretch from the cabin, the gravel torn up by the visiting cars. He crept toward the cabin and made his way onto the porch, crouching down and peering through the glass. The rooms were empty.

He pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. The kitchen was ransacked, glass and china thrown about in rage rather than reason. He touched the shredded curtain and took out his gun, racking the slide, and holding it against his thigh as he made his way up the stairs. The bedrooms were undisturbed and he check behind every door and beneath every bed. The house was deserted.

After he'd assured himself he was alone, he showered in the icy water and dressed in jeans, a buttondown, and a leather jacket. Then he packed another change of clothes, four bottles of water, instant coffee, a pot, and a switchblade. He ascended the stairs, the Glock in his fist, and left the cabin. He'd stayed there only a week and he'd been lucky to have that time before he was disturbed.

He made his way across the lawn and ducked into the damp, dusty barn where the Jeep sat, covered in tarp. At least they hadn't taken it. He threw his bag into the back and pushed the Glock into his belt, settling back against the seat and backed out onto the driveway. The cabin disappeared in his rearview mirror and he was sorry to see it go. There was something incredibly lonely about hitting the road again, although after three months of traveling alone he was growing used to it.

Four months ago the lights when out. Harry had been touring his solo album when it had happened. He'd been on stage, crooning into the microphone when the lights fell dark and the sound cut. The audience fell quiet and then they began turning their phone's flashlights on and looking around to see what was happening. There was a bodyguard beside Harry at once, pulling him off the stage and into a hot, little room to the side. His manager was standing there, frantically shaking his phone and cursing.

"What's happening?" Harry asked, snatching his phone off the table. It turned on, but the service was dead.

"I don't know. The power is down, the cell service is down. Maybe it's a solar storm?" his manager said. "You stay here. Anderson, guard him."

His manager never returned. Harry and Anderson waited for six hours, the doors locked, but the lights never came on. When they left the venue the streets were dark and smelled of smoke. It was deserted, but as they stood, a man ran by them with a woman holding a gun in fast pursuit. They stopped and the woman whipped the man across the face, took his wallet, and was gone. Her footsteps echoed off the alley walls.

The lights never came back on. The power grids were dead and along with them everything that needed a signal. Harry's phone ran out of batteries within a day and he exchanged it for the Glock. They traveled out of New York during the night, headed through Virginia and stopped in eastern Ohio where they ran into a camp of soldiers in green and blue wool uniforms. They took Anderson, but Harry slipped away into the dark and kept going west. The terrain was rough and the going was slow. He traveled at night in blocks of a few hours before laying low for several days. It was the best way to stay out of the way of wondering bands of rogues.

The time he'd spent fighting for his survival had hardened him. He couldn't believe he'd ever been so soft and spoiled. Now few of the things that had worried him before crossed his mind. He was too concerned with keeping his belly full and his body from being shot or stabbed. There had been a time when he never would have touched a gun, but now the Glock was second nature to him, almost an extension of his arm. He could load and shoot faster than do a shot of whiskey.

Now he pulled out onto the road and headed back down the mountain. The sun was behind him, warm on his back, and he had miles of road ahead. He was just settling down when he saw a sharp, black dot in the road up ahead and he slowed down the Jeep and then sped up, realizing it was better to get away from whatever was in the road than stop to chat. The shape began to materialize and it became a man with a scruffy gray beard, a semi-automatic over his shoulder. Harry attempted to steer around him, but he jumped ahead of the car. Harry slammed the brakes, pulling his Glock out and training it on the man.

"Are you part of the Republic?" the man said. He had a thick, southern accent.

"I'm traveling alone. Let me by," Harry said.

"I'm looking for a ride," the man said.

"I can't offer you one. Get away," Harry said, waving the gun.

"The power that be fell. Do you want to let the Republic have it all?" the man drawled. "You look like a strong, young fighter. Take me with you and let's raise some hell."

 **To be continued.**


End file.
